Culinary Debauchery
by lilien passe
Summary: Arthur gang presses Gilbert into helping him cook dinner, and snarky conversation soon follows. Allusions to US/UK and hints of Germany/Prussia with a side of fluff.


-Author's Notes-

Yet another fic where the beginning two thirds sat on my computer for four months and that I now just finished to try and break out of this most recent writing slump. As such it's not really anything fancy. Just some conversation and fluff. And it's weird to see what I thought of Arthur those months ago compared to now. He was so much nicer back then. I like my current image of him much better but… *shrugs* Too lazy to change.

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_Culinary Debauchery_

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"Whoa."

Gilbert leaned over Arthur's shoulder to warily eye the charred mess on the stove. He took a step backwards, his nose wrinkled in disgust. "…This?" the Prussian said, his tone incredulous. "This is what you dragged me and West over here for? To help you clean your goddamn oven?"

"Technically I invited you two over for dinner," Arthur grumbled, poking irritably at the tortured frying pan. "It's hardly my fault you interpreted that as a legitimate invitation to dinner bereft of ulterior motives."

Gilbert heaved a dramatic sigh and sank into one of the chairs surrounding the small kitchen table. "You know I can't cook worth shit, right? Why don't you force West in here? He can at least tell when somethin's about to burn before it goes nuclear. Then I can be the one loungin' on the couch in your livin' room enjoyin' a few cold ones." He gingerly pinched the bridge of his nose, "I think the toxic fumes are ruinin' my delicate constitution."

"Tough it out," Arthur snapped, angrily picking up the pan and flinging it into the sink already piled high with dirty dishes. "Germany's keeping Alfred distracted while I fix this mess."

Gilbert raised one aristocratic eyebrow, "I really hope your definition of distracted involves some sort of manly platonic bondin' activity and not what's runnin' through my head right now."

There was a loud clanging noise as Arthur dropped whatever ruined pan he was holding onto the pile in the sink. The blonde man groaned and ran a shaky hand through his hair. "I hate you so fucking much right now," he said wearily. "But I think I hate myself even more for thinking you could possibly offer some semblance of help."

Gilbert idly picked up an apple from the table and took an overly large bite. "So," he swallowed, licking the juice from his fingers, "What exactly were you tryin' to make, Arth?"

"Please don't start with that bloody 'nicknames' nonsense again," Arthur said in exasperation, crouching down to fumble around in the cabinet for a new pan. "I don't understand this irrational need of yours to desecrate everything you come across with your damn familiarizing vocabulary."

"What if I use somethin' else?" Gilbert suggested, taking another bite of apple. "Kirk's got a nice ring to it." He grinned, "Remember your old pirate days? Guess that makes you Captain. Kirk."

"I know you're making an asinine pop culture reference of some kind, and I'm giving you an advanced warning that I'm going to blatantly ignore it," Arthur said casually, opening the refrigerator door.

Gilbert finished his apple and haphazardly tossed the core over his shoulder, wiping his hands on the linen tablecloth. "Guess a couple hundred years made me forget you've got a stick up your ass that could rival West's," he muttered, hopping up from his seat. He strolled over to the counter to watch Arthur fiddle around with some sort of ground meat. "Speakin' of things up asses," he said suddenly, "How are you and the ball of obnoxious sunshine getttin' along these days?"

Arthur squawked and dropped the ingredients he was holding. His face was beet red as he angrily resumed his cooking, putting more vigor into the simple motions than was strictly necessary. "You could have chosen a better way of phrasing that," he growled, shoving a bowl at the Prussian.

"I chose to blatantly ignore that option," Gilbert deadpanned, eyeing the bowl with disdain. "And what the fuck are you shovin' at me?"

"Meat," Arthur snapped, lashing out to kick Gilbert in the shins when the platinum haired man's eyebrows raised suggestively. "Ground hamburger!" he yelled in exasperation, dropping the bowl into the other man's reluctant hands. "Figure out some way to season it before I shove it raw down your throat you tosspot!"

"Season… what?" Gilbert made a face, "The hell are you cookin' anyway?"

Arthur mumbled something inaudible, and pushed past the taller man to open the spice cabinet. Gilbert rolled his eyes and dropped the bowl on the counter with a loud bang. "If you're expectin' the great me to sink so low as to do actual manual _labor_, you gotta at least tell me what you're so bravely attemptin' to make."

"I seem to remember you yelling something in my face about Prussia's glorious work ethic a couple hundred years back," Arthur muttered, walking back to the counter, his arms laden with spices. "How the times do change."

Gilbert snorted, "Spend a few decades alone with Russia and you're bound to lose a thing or two. First and foremost any desire to work followed by your will to live as a close second." He cautiously poked the bowl with a long wooden spoon.

Arthur rolled his eyes, "Amazing. You're so callous about that now, but just a few years ago I remember you throwing yourself into Germany's arms like one of those busty women on a romance novel cover."

"I was emotionally compromised!" Gilbert snapped, shoving the bowl away and resentfully picking up a random spice off the counter. "Like I said. Russia. Will to live equals gone. The math's not that complicated, Kirkland!" The platinum-haired man twisted the cap off of the spice jar – oregano, whatever the shit that was – and dumped some into the bowl. He picked up the spoon and stirred furiously.

The British man smirked as he chopped potatoes, calling out softly in a high-pitched voice, "'West! Oh, West! How I missed your gallon of gel a day hairstyle! And your anal retentive personality! Not to mention the way you flirt with little Italian boys behind my back! Hold me, West! I think I'm in love!'" Arthur snickered, laying out the thin strips of potato on a baking sheet. "If Alfred hadn't told me it was really you, I never would have linked the two together. Not your best moment, really."

Gilbert remained silent, continuing to dump spices in the bowl. He picked up a knife that was lying on the counter to deftly chop an onion into small bits, throwing those into the mix as well. Arthur faltered a little at the other man's lack of response, and gave a small cough. "So… what exactly are you-"

"You've got a funny way of showin' gratitude, England," Gilbert said calmly, pushing up his sleeves before digging his hands into the mixture, pulling up handfuls at a time to form into small portions. "And the only reason your head hasn't been shoved into that oven yet is 'cause I got two potential eyewitnesses in the next room. Plus I'm fuckin' starved, so I figure the sooner I get this shit done, the sooner we can eat, and the more time I've got to plan your slow and painful demise. It's a win-win."

Arthur blinked, then shook his head and shoved the baking sheet into the oven, any traces of mirth gone. "You're a lot harder to argue with now," the blonde muttered, setting the timer on the stove. "The death threats used to be accompanied by actions rather than surprisingly coherent sentences."

"We're politicians now. It's our job to kill with words," Gilbert said stonily, placing the last one on the plate. "Doesn't mean I'm not mentally murderin' you a zillion times over in new and interestin' ways, though."

"Noted," Arthur droned, picking up the plate and walking through the kitchen out onto the outside patio, snagging a few beers out of the fridge on the way. He lifted the lid off the grill, coughing slightly as smoke flared up into his face.

Gilbert just stared after the British man for a moment before rolling his eyes and walking down the steps to stand next to the blonde. "And you called me pathetic," he drawled, shoving Arthur out of the way to take his place in front of the grill. He carefully placed the hamburgers on the hot surface before wiping his hands on a nearby towel and cracking open a beer.

Arthur stood awkwardly off to the side, watching the other nation work, worrying at his bottom lip. "…I didn't really think it bothered you," he muttered petulantly. "I'm sorry."

"If it's for bein' a piss-poor cook, then that apology to the world at large is already long overdue," Gilbert said, taking another swig of his beer.

There was silence for a moment, the only noise the faint sound of the football game coming from the open window of the living room, the noise mingling with two deep voices bantering back and forth.

Gilbert suddenly spoke. "They get along surprisingly well, don't they."

"Who?"

Gilbert jerked his head towards the living room. "Hefty blondes one and two," he intoned, placing his empty beer bottle next to the grill and gently poking at the hamburgers with a spatula.

Arthur frowned. "Ah, well…Alfred… kept him company quite a bit in the beginning," the British man said tersely, crossing his arms over his chest. "France and I weren't exactly jumping at the opportunity to play drinking buddy with the guy who just about razed our houses to the ground. But Alfred… tries not to hold grudges as best he can."

"How very like Mr. Donut. He's been blessed with the mental retention of a steel sieve," Gilbert muttered, opening another beer before tossing one to Arthur. He took a long draught, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Arthur toyed with the unopened bottle for a moment before sighing. "What I said… about Italy, it's not-"

"I don't really feel like talkin' about that," Gilbert said airily, flipping the burgers with a skilled hand. "Not unless you wanna take a stroll down your own personal memory lane of hell along with me."

"But it's not true!" Arthur said angrily, fishing a bottle opener out of his pocket and popping the top off of his beer. "Alfred told me all about it. He says they just-"

"I said shut your goddamn mouth, England," Gilbert bit out, "Unless you want to wind up with your face done medium well smashed against this grill."

Arthur made a small noise of frustration before gulping down his beer. He drained almost half the bottle before he came up for air. "You can be such a childish asshole sometimes," he snapped, glaring vehemently at the other man.

"Funny. Thought you went for that sorta thing," Gilbert sneered, jabbing at the half done burgers with a vengeful spatula.

Arthur flushed, but took another drag of beer before sighing. "Look, Pr-…Ea-… Weillschmidt."

"Thanks for the historical ambiguity."

The blonde man scowled, "Weillschmidt. Just… listen for a second."

Gilbert listlessly drank his beer. "Talk all you want, Picard. Just remember you don't have anythin' even resemblin' an interested audience."

"…Picard?"

"These are the jokes, Kirk. Try and keep up."

Arthur struggled to keep his temper. "You have to be one of the most infuriating-"

There was a sudden loud burst of laughter from the living room, and both men paused.

"…so deserved that yellow card! Rodgers….the best…" Alfred's loud voice carried through the window.

"…how can… rugby is much more brutal, Jones. Stop making…" Ludwig chuckled, his deep bass echoing into the backyard.

Arthur looked out of the corner of his eye at Gilbert. The older man stood over the grill, beer clutched in his hand, a small, painful smile on his face. He suddenly spoke.

"Every time that… that brat comes over to our house, it takes all my new found self control not to rip his arms off and beat him to death with them." Gilbert scowled, "He hides behind that damn innocent grin. Completely ignores me, even when I'm standin' in the same fuckin' room. Laughin', making him laugh. Makin' him smile like I've-... like I've never been able to."

Arthur's heavy eyebrows shot up to his hairline, but he remained silent, diplomatically sipping at his beer.

Gilbert cursed as one of the burgers abruptly went up in smoke. He hastily retrieved the singed thing, placing it on the waiting platter. "Damn," the platinum haired man growled at the hot grill, "Almost perfect."

"Still better than anything I could have made," Arthur said by way of thanks, picking at the fraying label of his beer.

"Kirk, a one armed wombat could out perform you in the culinary arts."

Arthur glared, "You sound like Alfred. Not a description I'd relish having applied to me."

Gilbert's red eyes flicked to the side to stare inquisitively at the other man. "…Gotta say. Never thought you two would last more than a half a century."

"…It's barely been thirty years, git."

"Make that a week," the platinum haired man drawled, flipping the last of the burgers onto the plate, "I forgot how charmin' you British types are." He smirked, "Don't see you denyin' it though."

The blonde man fidgeted with his empty beer bottle. "The frog already rubbed my nose in it," he said irritably, starting blankly at the plate of hamburgers. "Called me an incestuous pedophile with a narcissism complex. The rest was just garbled French that I can't imagine anyone ever needing to know."

Gilbert picked up the full plate, turning to walk inside. "You'd think a guy as pompous as Francis would be able to come up with new insults over the course of a few centuries," he said, shaking his head sadly. "Really a let down."

Arthur held open the screen door for the other man, "What do you mean?"

"Called Spain and me the same thing back in our prime," Gilbert said, striding into the kitchen and setting the plate down on the wooden kitchen table. "Heard Antonio took it especially hard. Couldn't even look that kid of his in the eye for 'bout a decade afterwards. Then of course little Romano left, followed by the rest of Spain's empire. Don't think he ever forgave France for makin' his last years with the kid awkward as fuck."

Arthur closed the screen door behind him, walking over to turn off the stove. "That… was more information than I needed," he said frowning as he opened the oven door, reaching in with a towel to pull out the tray of fries, managing to only singe himself slightly. "You forget Spain and I have a tumultuous relationship at best."

"Guess we all can't be part of the bad friend brigade," Gilbert said, cautiously picking up a potato wedge and tossing it back and forth between his hands to let it cool before popping it in his mouth.

Arthur poked around in the fridge, pulling out lettuce, tomatoes, and roughly five bottles of catsup. He stood, idly picking up a bag of bread and tossing it at Gilbert. "I've no idea what that means," he droned, ripping the lettuce into chunks and tossing it carelessly into a bowl. His movements slowed as he picked up a knife and began slicing the tomato, a guarded expression on his face. "But I suppose... we were all friends at one time or another, weren't we," he said impassively.

Gilbert yawned, stealing another fry. "We were all enemies too, Kirkland. Don't talk about the good old days like they were all serendipity and rainbow flavoured cotton candy with a side of glitter coated candy beans."

"Guess I still have trouble separating myself from fantasy," Arthur mumbled, bringing over the bowls of vegetables to the table.

Gilbert's eyes narrowed, "You still gettin' those crazy ass hallucinations? Unicorns and fairies and all that shit?"

Arthur shook his head. "Not…," he hesitated, arranging the plates and bowls of food on the table to make a straight line. He smiled bitterly, "Not since Alfred."

"…Don't tell me you miss bein' fuckin' out of your mind crazy half the time."

"You'd be surprised the things you miss when they're suddenly yanked from under you," Arthur said stonily, turning around to pull plates from the upper cabinets.

Gilbert helped himself to another fry, muttering under his breath, "Not as surprised as you'd think."

Arthur paused before setting the plates and cups down on the table. The British man crossed his arms, examining the meal in front of him. "… This looks pathetic. Julia Child would have a conniption. We should put it out of its misery."

"What it looks like is the sick food lovechild of a pile of sick cow and death incarnate," Gilbert drawled, running his hand through his hair. "In other words, a hell of a sight better than anythin' else you could've come up with."

Arthur frowned. "A valid point, I suppose."

The two stood silently in the kitchen, both listening to the distant sound of the game still blaring from the television. Ludwig's laugh suddenly reverberated through the house, the noise deep and calming in the still summer air. Arthur barely caught a pained expression that flitted across Gilbert's face, before the German man resumed his normal bored and haughty look.

"He doesn't do well without you," the British man suddenly blurted out, hands gripping the top of the chair in front of him.

Gilbert visibly flinched at the words, but his face remained impassive. He said nothing.

Arthur reminded himself that a couple beers shouldn't be enough to strip him of common sense. His addled brain had better know what it was doing. "Alfred told me," the British man said curtly, straightening the napkins on top of the table. "It was when… when you two were separate. Germany was a mess, and Alfred was shuttling back and forth between your ex-house and Japan's, trying to help both of them pick up the pieces and move on. The two of them went out for drinks, and got to talking… "

"Sounds like the set-up for some god-awful porn," Gilbert muttered, walking around Arthur to open the fridge, fishing out another bottle of beer.

Arthur ground his teeth in frustration. "You can't take anything seriously, can you?"

"Not when it comes to this sorta drudgery," Gilbert growled. He swigged his beer, draining half the bottle before fixing Arthur with a calculating stare. "You of all people should know, Kirkland," he said bitterly. "Things said in bars can never be trusted."

"But they got to talking and… Well, when did you figure out that… that Alfred and I…" Arthur trailed off, toying with the half full bottle of beer in his hands.

Gilbert rolled his eyes. "When you two started starin' across the conference table at each other with that 'god fuck me now' look. Seriously made it hard to eat that already nasty ass food they serve at those meetings."

Arthur stuttered briefly before regaining his composure, "You-… you figured it out just from summit meetings? There's no way you're that observant."

"That, and the fact that we got a call at our house at five in the fuckin' mornin' from Mr. Donut himself, panickin' and askin' to have a 'secret conference call' with West about 'relationship help'" Gilbert sneered. "If a guy had only two brain cells to rub together, he'd still be shocked at how obvious you two are."

Arthur smirked. "...Imagine that obviousness multiplied by the largest number conceivable. Then you might get an idea of where my logic is coming from."

The two fell silent.

"The food's getting' cold."

Arthur sighed irritably. "It can wait."

"The hell it can," Gilbert snapped, "I spent forever makin' those. I'm gonna go get the rest of you blonde assholes so we can-"

"He smiles for you, you pathetic excuse for a half nation."

Gilbert froze, his long fingers twitching slightly as though ready to lash out.

Arthur continued wearily. "He looks at you… and there's nothing but a smile there. Even when he's about ready to strangle you he's smiling. And not with any sort of vindictiveness like you'd have. But something real. Something that appeared after you did your dramatic heroine swoon all those years ago and hasn't really gone away." Arthur sighed, and fixed Gilbert with a rather pointed glare. "How the fuck can you be so retardedly dense and still survive from day to day? It's a bloody miracle."

Gilbert's mouth curled at the insult, but his red eyes were pensive. "The brat-"

"Indulgence," Arthur said firmly, still glowering at Gilbert as though daring the other man to argue with him. "The same look he has whenever he takes care of those damn mutts of his." The British man sighed, "Look, I don't expect you to believe me, and to be honest the only reason I'm bothering to open my mouth is because I find the whole thing too stupidly amusing to let alone."

Gilbert remained silent, still paused in the doorway, his eyes murderous and dark with an intensity of emotion Arthur could not place. Suddenly the platinum haired man turned to face the hall, and shouted. "West! Grab Jones and get your ass in here! Food!"

There came a muffled groan from the direction of the living room, and the two could hear the other nations picking themselves up off the couch.

"…improved over the past couple years." Ludwig's voice grew more distinct as he made his way down the hallway.

Alfred let out a bright laugh, "Wouldn't count on it. I don't really give him much chance to practice."

The two blondes strode into the room, Alfred grinning from ear to ear, Ludwig's face a polite mask attempting to hide his trepidation. Ludwig moved to stand cautiously next to his older counterpart, glancing with feigned disinterest at his wrist watch.

The American bounded over to where Arthur was standing, his eyes never leaving the table full of food. The blonde looked ecstatic. "Hamburgers?" he asked in disbelief, finally wrenching his gaze from the food to stare at the British man. His eyes suddenly narrowed, "You're not tryin' to bribe me, are ya?" Alfred asked, his voice laced with suspicion.

Arthur rolled his eyes, reaching out to flick the younger man on the forehead. "You underestimate me, idiot," he said. "If I wanted to bribe you I have a thousand other things I'm better at than cooking to work with."

Across the room, Gilbert leered at the British man. "I'm sure you do, Kirk. But save it for when you're not about to make your guests lose their will to ever eat again."

"I meant cross stitching!" Arthur shouted, his face bright red.

"Not really helpin' your case there, buddy boy."

Arthur glared Gilbert, a scathing retort on the tip of his tongue, when suddenly Alfred leaned down and placed a chaste kiss on the British man's forehead. Arthur let out a torrent of swear words and lashed out to sock the other man in the arm, but Alfred had already moved on to the food, loading a plate with four burgers and a mountain of fries, jabbering away a mile a minute at how he could not believe the food for once did not resemble the bottom of a coal mine.

The English man scowled, and reached up to scrub his forehead with the back of one hand. He pointedly ignored Gilbert's sadistically amused expression, striding calmly forward to make up his own plate of food. Ahead of him, Alfred pushed open the screen door, calling out over his shoulder, "Let's eat on the patio! I need out of this house!"

"Figures the only time sunshine donut wants fresh air is when he gets to stuff his face at the same time," Gilbert sneered. He elbowed Ludwig in the side. "You go first, West," he drawled, grinning up at the taller man, "I'm in a charitable mood."

"How benevolent," Ludwig deadpanned, stepping up to the table and grabbing a plate. He turned to raise one inquisitive eyebrow at his shorter counterpart. Gilbert waved him on. "Go, West. Eat as much of my awesome culinary masterpiece as you can before Supersize comes back for seconds and decimates the lot."

"This is mastery? I pray to God I never have to see the stuff your novices come up with," Ludwig said morbidly, but he picked up his plate and headed for the backdoor. He paused on the steps and suddenly turned, walking back into the room. He moved to stand in front of Gilbert, staring down at the older man for a moment before placing one large hand on Gilbert's slender shoulder. He leaned down to whisper something in his brother's ear, his hand tightening slightly as he spoke.

Gilbert's eyes widened.

Ludwig straightened, his blue eyes dark and serious. He suddenly smiled and shrugged his shoulders before turning around, grabbing his plate of food on the way out. The screen door slammed behind him.

Gilbert twitched slightly, foot tapping anxiously against the tiled floor as he chewed on an already ragged thumbnail. Arthur frowned, and glanced out towards the backyard where the other two were seated, chatting amiably, Alfred taking large, enthusiastic bites of his food. The British man turned back around to stare inquisitively at Gilbert.

The pale man's voice was subdued. "He said…"

Gilbert stopped fidgeting and covered half his face with one elegant hand. "He said…," the red eyed man continued grudgingly, "…That I should believe you."

Arthur smirked in triumph. "Sound advice," was his only reply, before he grabbed his own food and moving quickly towards the back door, leaving a shockingly quiet Gilbert in his wake.

The British man's smirk widened as he pushed his way past the screen door. Alfred beamed up at him and Ludwig gave him a smile and a small nod of gratitude as he took his seat.

Arthur took a bite of his hamburger, grinning like a lunatic despite the slightly charred taste.

France owed him fifty quid.

Life was good.


End file.
